Last weekend I started and finished reading MTMTE. It left my head full of new characters and new interesting pairs. Fic reading happened, of course
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What came first: the words or the art? >DgunmaxualOctober 10 2012, 11:30:50 UTC
Pharma dragged in air that felt too thin and too hot to cool his strained systems. It came out in a groan as his spark gave another shivery pulse in response to Tarn's teasing, not-quite-enough hum. When his vision cleared of alerts of an energy seize that didn't QUITE trip him into overload -- like he hadn't FELT it?! -- the medic struggled to keep his voice level. Sane. As if that would reach this maniac. "B-be...be reasonable," he bargained desperately. "My absence will be noticed soon!"
Discovery of their deal versus Tarn making his pet Autobot squirm? No bargain. "Your absence will be noticed by that traitor," Tarn said smoothly, letting the medic collapse back against him as legs suddenly went weak and a spark spasmed on the cusp of climax. He made sure to pause, listening closely to that spark until he was sure it'd ebbed enough to continue. Just to prod it up again. "I do hope Ambulon comes looking for you."
"OhPrimusoh." He was barely coherent enough to feel ashamed of how he sobbed for divine intervention. If Primus would give him the overload he so sorely needed right now, Pharma would have gladly groveled. "Please. Fragging glitchborn underclocked Decepticon gutterspawn OHuhhhn!" The stream of insults abruptly became a grunted, half-strangled cry.
When his medic had been thoroughly reduced to whimpers and undignified, pleading moans, Tarn lifted his mask from where he'd pressed it between Pharma's shoulders. His humming had never raised volume, but placed behind Pharma's spark chamber?
"Please," Pharma panted, hanging from his hands. "Please. What...what do I...do I have to do? Ohhh." He shuddered, hands opening and closing convulsively on open air. "Ohhhuuh yes. Please. I'll do it. J-just tell me."
The purple mask came to rest on his shoulder, nestling in a mockery of affection between Pharma's helm and air intake. "I believe you owe me a dance, Autobot." His own hands ran down the medic's shaking arms to take the wrists. He used them to raise Pharma's arms above his head, setting blue hands on his shoulder-treads. "Like this. A 'gutterspawn Decepticon' such as I would never get any other kind of dance, hmm?"
He was the head of the Delphi Emergency Medical Clinic. He was a surgeon of unparalleled skill. Pharma had taught legions of unskilled simpletons to hold a laser scapel correctly and saved thousands of lives. Alright, sure, he was supplying t-cogs to the DJD, but it kept his medical facility and his ward manager from being overrun by savage killers. It also kept him from screaming his life out in utter agony, which is how he'd been introduced to this massive 'Con in this first place, and why he'd struck that damnable bargain.
Pharma clutched the treads as if his life depended on it, which it kind of did, and miserably admitted, "I have no idea what sort of dance you're talking about." He could guess, but...frag him. He'd never--it wasn't something--oh, REALLY, who would expect a medic to walk into the kind of bars that song would be sung in?!
Because it was a filthy song. Tarn crooned it against his audio, one foot tapping again, and lowered his hands to Pharma's hips. The intimate touch had the Autobot jerking away, but a growl turned near-burning arousal into sudden flame across an already over-sensitized spark. Intakes stuttered, and a mewl of pain got out before it could be stifled. Blue hands fumbled for their lost holds, returning obediently to the treads. Pharma gritted his teeth, enduring the slow crawl of comparatively huge purple fingers stroking into the gaps where his thighs met his pelvis. They settled into a firm hold only after groping over every inch, making him FEEL them.
Tarn YANKED him back, one large silver thigh abruptly forced between the medic's so the white aft rode up, grinding as Pharma staggered, off-balance. Pushed up onto the last flat of his feet, the medic arched and twisted. Only his panicked grasp on the treads over his head kept him from falling forward as the hands controlling his hips see-sawed them, keeping him from regaining his balance. He yelped, fighting the hands and unwittingly shimmying his groin up and down the wide silver thigh between his own.
Re: What came first: the words or the art? >DgunmaxualOctober 10 2012, 11:32:59 UTC
A foot tapped, and Pharma bucked in time, riding the movement of Tarn's thigh as he whimpered desperately. Dirty lyrics couched in velvet and fiery lust rocked him. His body tensed into a strut-bending bow and curled just as quickly; unconscious, involuntary thrusts that came in rhythm with the thigh he rode. He undulating between gravity and desire, trying to push his throbbing spark up and back toward the purring voice tormenting it, and Pharma danced.
"A dance like this," Tarn whispered, and his voice had Pharma deaf and blind, optics blazing and mouth drooping open.
Tarn watched, appreciative but mostly amused. He kept his voice just level enough to prevent that last, lovely surge of energy, and his medic's frantic writhing grew ever more gratifying.
By the time Pharma scraped enough coherency up to resume begging, the Decepticon's hands were no longer guiding his hips. No, that dip and wiggle was all Pharma. Pharma and stymied, overwhelming NEED, yes, but the jet knew--and oh, the humiliation stung--that the shivering slide of his inner thighs against Tarn's huge leg was all him.
He hung his head, offlining his optics, and whimpered his pleas. This...was worse than when he'd begged for his life. Then, at least, he'd had the excuse of shrieking stabs of pain from his spark and the threat of eminent death. What was his excuse now? "Please, Tarn, PLEASE let me overload. Please, please. I'm--you've had your show. Plea--oohhhh, please. Please!"
His pride could be traded for a few surges, apparently.
One large purple finger reached down and traced a lecherous line from knee to torso, stopping to linger on Pharma's bucking hips. It came to rest under his cockpit. "Open up," Tarn sang.
Horror washed a too-brief cold chill through him before his spark pulsed hot again. "N-no, please--"
"I want to see you dance, Pharma." The jet arched and moaned long and loud at the sound of his name, helpless to do more than twist and make incoherent half-words. "I want to see those famous fingers dance, too."
"Primus no, spare me," sobbed from the Autobot, but the words were almost covered by the click of chest latches opening.
"Primus really isn't the one you should be praying to," Tarn told him as he pried one fine blue hand off his shoulder-treads and guided it, trembling and reluctant, toward where brilliant light spilled out. The purple mask shifted until the Decepticon could peer downward as well, watching. The hand's shaking only increased, fingers making small motions like they would try to escape, but there was no escape. The jet's vents hiccuped, gasping for air, and Tarn let his laughter roll through the poor mech.
And when he tired of watching those talented fingers work futilely as their owner's engorged spark, Tarn did indeed make Pharma pray to him. By then, Pharma was willing to.
Discovery of their deal versus Tarn making his pet Autobot squirm? No bargain. "Your absence will be noticed by that traitor," Tarn said smoothly, letting the medic collapse back against him as legs suddenly went weak and a spark spasmed on the cusp of climax. He made sure to pause, listening closely to that spark until he was sure it'd ebbed enough to continue. Just to prod it up again. "I do hope Ambulon comes looking for you."
"OhPrimusoh." He was barely coherent enough to feel ashamed of how he sobbed for divine intervention. If Primus would give him the overload he so sorely needed right now, Pharma would have gladly groveled. "Please. Fragging glitchborn underclocked Decepticon gutterspawn OHuhhhn!" The stream of insults abruptly became a grunted, half-strangled cry.
When his medic had been thoroughly reduced to whimpers and undignified, pleading moans, Tarn lifted his mask from where he'd pressed it between Pharma's shoulders. His humming had never raised volume, but placed behind Pharma's spark chamber?
"Please," Pharma panted, hanging from his hands. "Please. What...what do I...do I have to do? Ohhh." He shuddered, hands opening and closing convulsively on open air. "Ohhhuuh yes. Please. I'll do it. J-just tell me."
The purple mask came to rest on his shoulder, nestling in a mockery of affection between Pharma's helm and air intake. "I believe you owe me a dance, Autobot." His own hands ran down the medic's shaking arms to take the wrists. He used them to raise Pharma's arms above his head, setting blue hands on his shoulder-treads. "Like this. A 'gutterspawn Decepticon' such as I would never get any other kind of dance, hmm?"
He was the head of the Delphi Emergency Medical Clinic. He was a surgeon of unparalleled skill. Pharma had taught legions of unskilled simpletons to hold a laser scapel correctly and saved thousands of lives. Alright, sure, he was supplying t-cogs to the DJD, but it kept his medical facility and his ward manager from being overrun by savage killers. It also kept him from screaming his life out in utter agony, which is how he'd been introduced to this massive 'Con in this first place, and why he'd struck that damnable bargain.
Pharma clutched the treads as if his life depended on it, which it kind of did, and miserably admitted, "I have no idea what sort of dance you're talking about." He could guess, but...frag him. He'd never--it wasn't something--oh, REALLY, who would expect a medic to walk into the kind of bars that song would be sung in?!
Because it was a filthy song. Tarn crooned it against his audio, one foot tapping again, and lowered his hands to Pharma's hips. The intimate touch had the Autobot jerking away, but a growl turned near-burning arousal into sudden flame across an already over-sensitized spark. Intakes stuttered, and a mewl of pain got out before it could be stifled. Blue hands fumbled for their lost holds, returning obediently to the treads. Pharma gritted his teeth, enduring the slow crawl of comparatively huge purple fingers stroking into the gaps where his thighs met his pelvis. They settled into a firm hold only after groping over every inch, making him FEEL them.
Tarn YANKED him back, one large silver thigh abruptly forced between the medic's so the white aft rode up, grinding as Pharma staggered, off-balance. Pushed up onto the last flat of his feet, the medic arched and twisted. Only his panicked grasp on the treads over his head kept him from falling forward as the hands controlling his hips see-sawed them, keeping him from regaining his balance. He yelped, fighting the hands and unwittingly shimmying his groin up and down the wide silver thigh between his own.
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"A dance like this," Tarn whispered, and his voice had Pharma deaf and blind, optics blazing and mouth drooping open.
Tarn watched, appreciative but mostly amused. He kept his voice just level enough to prevent that last, lovely surge of energy, and his medic's frantic writhing grew ever more gratifying.
By the time Pharma scraped enough coherency up to resume begging, the Decepticon's hands were no longer guiding his hips. No, that dip and wiggle was all Pharma. Pharma and stymied, overwhelming NEED, yes, but the jet knew--and oh, the humiliation stung--that the shivering slide of his inner thighs against Tarn's huge leg was all him.
He hung his head, offlining his optics, and whimpered his pleas. This...was worse than when he'd begged for his life. Then, at least, he'd had the excuse of shrieking stabs of pain from his spark and the threat of eminent death. What was his excuse now? "Please, Tarn, PLEASE let me overload. Please, please. I'm--you've had your show. Plea--oohhhh, please. Please!"
His pride could be traded for a few surges, apparently.
One large purple finger reached down and traced a lecherous line from knee to torso, stopping to linger on Pharma's bucking hips. It came to rest under his cockpit. "Open up," Tarn sang.
Horror washed a too-brief cold chill through him before his spark pulsed hot again. "N-no, please--"
"I want to see you dance, Pharma." The jet arched and moaned long and loud at the sound of his name, helpless to do more than twist and make incoherent half-words. "I want to see those famous fingers dance, too."
"Primus no, spare me," sobbed from the Autobot, but the words were almost covered by the click of chest latches opening.
"Primus really isn't the one you should be praying to," Tarn told him as he pried one fine blue hand off his shoulder-treads and guided it, trembling and reluctant, toward where brilliant light spilled out. The purple mask shifted until the Decepticon could peer downward as well, watching. The hand's shaking only increased, fingers making small motions like they would try to escape, but there was no escape. The jet's vents hiccuped, gasping for air, and Tarn let his laughter roll through the poor mech.
And when he tired of watching those talented fingers work futilely as their owner's engorged spark, Tarn did indeed make Pharma pray to him. By then, Pharma was willing to.
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FYI, There's another pic in the making.
The world needs to see Pharma dance e__e
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